Stories by
R. Gatwood

If I position my head just right, my wife will be looking into my eyes when she smiles. The hologram flickers as I rewind one more time.

R. Gatwood is concise.

Instantly he adds, “Forget I said that,” and endures a moment of agonizing hope until she says, “Okay.”

R. Gatwood is concise.

Mike says sure, enjoying how casual he sounds. Jim thanks him too much. Then both go silent, watching the pen scratch across the check.

R. Gatwood is concise.

Once it warms to skin temperature I can’t tell the difference, honey. Honestly I can’t. Anyway, it doesn’t make you any less of a—Honey?

R. Gatwood is concise.

After half an hour he puts the pen down for good. If he had the words to leave a note he wouldn’t be doing this.

R. Gatwood is concise.

The runt of the litter was her favorite—guaranteed to die before she stopped loving it.

R. Gatwood is concise.

I ask if it scares her, seeing him covered in IVs, and she says no. Then she looks up and beams. “Know what? I’m stronger than Daddy now.”

R. Gatwood is concise.

Hamelin is quiet. Our grown-up world runs more efficiently than ever. Once I thought I saw a rat and my heart leapt—but it was only a mole.

R. Gatwood is concise.

Every night the mail is on the table beside a covered dish. Sometimes a note: “Do you love me?” If I did, I’d have changed the locks by now.

R. Gatwood is concise.

He smirks at the baggie he’s confiscated: “So nice of you to share.” I watch him light up. So nice of him to mention his poison ivy allergy.

R. Gatwood is concise.